


Personal Hell

by RussianCaravan



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst, Depression, Hurt No Comfort, Insane Bill Cipher, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mild Gore, Mind Manipulation, Psychological Torture, Rape/Non-con Elements, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Suicide Attempt, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-30
Updated: 2016-04-30
Packaged: 2018-06-05 10:40:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6701575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RussianCaravan/pseuds/RussianCaravan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stanford and Stanley are separated and in their own personal hell. (Stancest is implied and fantasised about, but never like, explicit, and can be interpreted as Bill using brotherly love to hurt Stanford.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Personal Hell

**Author's Note:**

> First time writing for Gravity Falls, so I apologise if the characterisation is off in any way. Also pretty vent-fic-ish I guess.

**Stanley**

Stanley had barely moved in days. Nothing mattered. Not the sliver of sunlight (or was it from streetlights?) coming through the stained curtains, not the ever-present smell of cigarettes and exhaust fumes, and certainly not his empty stomach bloodshot eyes. Staying in this room was wasting precious money- he knew that- but Rico was coming for him anyway, so why bother? He may as well get a few nights rest before his inevitable death. He just couldn’t do it anymore. He was so, so tired. Not just physically, but mentally. He was tired of waking up with aches and pains knowing he’d have to put on a big, fake grin and con morons into buying his cheap shit. Again. Day after day of the same meaningless garbage that got him nowhere.

He should have jumped that night.

That night, many months ago now, after another ‘relationship’ went down to shit. He was so drunk he could barely stand, but he managed to get to the roof of some building- whiskey bottle still in hand. Looking down onto the concrete he felt his fear grip him, yet, he also felt a disturbing sort of calmness. It could all end. Just a few moments of pain could end this life build on nothing but heartache and suffering. But he took too long building up his courage. Police restrained him and taking him to the nearest hospital where he would spend weeks being pumped full of fuck-knows-what and watched 24/7. The drugs made him numb to the core and filled his nights with decent rest, and with good behaviour (and the some class- A bullshitting) he was let out. But his nerve was gone, and it was back on the run. Sometimes he thought of his brother- his twin- who he’d read in the paper a year or so ago had won some fancy grant. Stanford actually made it despite having a complete fuck-up as a twin. Stanley was proud, but so, so sad.

Other times he’d think of the people who’d miss him- he even made a list- but that list was an empty piece of paper. Every girlfriend he’d ever had had left him without a second thought (but could he really blame them? He has seen his reflection), his other brother probably doesn’t even remember him, and his parents haven’t called in years. He sat down and thought for hours- thinking of every single person he’d ever known in some feudal hope that maybe- just maybe- they’d miss him if he went to sleep and never woke up. There was one part of him that thought perhaps Stanford would forgive would, that he’d welcome him with open arms. Stanley often found himself fantasising about that. He’d imagine telling Ford his long, sad life; his constant failures in sales, his prison stints, his involvement with drug cartels and loan sharks in Vegas, the prostitution, the suicide attempt, the drugs, all of it. And Stanford would pull him into a tight hug- just like when they were younger, and tell him it would all be okay. In the end, Stanley just cried. There really was no one to miss him. And that was how he ended up in some dive motel off a lonely highway. Alone and friendless. Hoping a loan shark would take pity and just kill him. Because even when he has nothing to live for, and no one to love him, and no purpose, he’s still too much of a coward to kill himself.

“Dad was right- I am good for nothing."

**Stanford**

Shadows hung from every corner of Stanford’s house. Inventions, gadgets, and findings covered the walls from roof to floor. It was a sort of organised chaos that he had always loved- but now that organised chaos was only associated with one thing- Bill. Now fear had tinged every object in the house. Now nothing could help him feel safe. No matter how many weapons he built, no matter how many defences he put up, he just felt anxious all the time. Bill invading his dreams every night didn’t help. Every night he was forced to endure whatever sick games Bill decided to play. Sometimes it was to watch innocent members of the town be flayed alive, or to watch them burn alive, or to watch them be poked full of holes and watch their organs be pulled out of them, but others, Ford was the one doing it. He watched his own hands torture and destroy and torment.

But it wasn’t always townsfolk, sometimes it was those from his past. Times when he would drip acid into the eyes, genitals, and skin of those who bullied him throughout high school gave him a small sense of pleasure between the disgust, which only made him hate himself that much more. There were so many horrible dreams Bill forced into his head- most of which he thankfully could no longer remember- but the worst ones were always of Stanley. He’d dream of torturing his own twin brother, but not like the others. Bill had found a far more sinister method to make Ford torture Stanley with, by distorting Fords own fantasies. It always started out like a fantasy coming true. Stan would kiss him, but when he responded, he was pushed away and told how much of a sick freak he was. But then he’d grab Stanley anyway, and force the kissing and touching no matter how hard Stanley pleaded for him to stop- no matter how hard he cried. And after Stanford came, he would always be forced into lucid dreaming by Bill, and try to apologise. Bill’s meddling always made Ford wake up crying and hating himself even more then he already did.

Which lead him down a path he promised Fiddleford, Stan, and himself he wouldn’t go down again. But it was the only thing that took away the pain for a while. As a teenager it allowed him to express his own self-hatred and escape a mind which went too fast. In College it let him focus on work and calm his over analysing mind. And now it kept the horror-show that was now his life from consuming him completely.

At first he was disappointed with himself for how shallow his cuts were, but after a while he got back to seeing large drops of blood come to the surface and drool down his skin. The blood was always so calming.


End file.
